


On Introduced Species

by TheCrazyGeek



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Wings, F/M, Sex, Shameless Smut, Weird Plot Shit, literally fucking yourself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 06:20:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1768786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrazyGeek/pseuds/TheCrazyGeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Myself and my cowriter were challenged to write a sex scene between two of our creations - Winged!Malcolm Tucker and Vampire!Malcolm Tucker. It somehow evolved into this epic smutfest. Nicola Murray is a Witch and Jamie is a werewolf. Suspend your disbelief and forget canon. We did...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Malcolm meets Malcolm

****

 

The concrete jungle of politics is in some respects not so different from the conventional forested one: the chief guiding principle is survival of the fittest, as determined by the relentless competition between and within the species. Each organism adapts to its environment and its myriad interactions with the other inhabitants, or it dies.

The introduction of a non-native species to the ecosystem by an outside force disrupts this equilibrium…

***

He’d tracked this strange presence by scent and by instinct, finally catching up to him near the front door of Number 10.

"Fucking show yerself, ye cowardly auld cunt," he’d snarled, eyes glowing amber as his canines lengthened.

"Don’t ever fucking call me that again, if ye know what’s good for yer health," came the answer, the brash Glaswegian accent familiar — too familiar. Then the sound of the doorknob turning, the door being thrown open.

It was nae wonder that he didn’t believe what he saw at first; he’d been up a full forty-eight hours stamping out a scandal involving an MP’s porn habit somehow showing up in the Register of Interests, without the chance to feed.

The sharp-featured face that turned toward him was a mirror of his own.

But what really made him think he was finally fucking cracking up under this fucking job was what happened next: he felt a sudden gust of wind ruffling his hair and coat, and by the time he was able to open his eyes and jerk a torn piece of grey Armani off of his face, his twin had sprouted wings — an actual pair of fucking feathered wings, silvery and blade-like, and taken flight.

With his vampiric swiftness and strength, Malcolm grabbed for his winged double, rugby-tackled him to the ground, and brought his mouth down to his neck. Blood would tell the truth as to who exactly this fucking shapeshifter or mutant or delirium this doppelganger was. Whatever he was, the bastard was fast, he’d nearly sidestepped Malcolm’s leap, so he couldn’t be human. Even Jamie, with his werewolf genes, couldn’t get out of the way fast enough when he leapt.

He rested his tongue for a moment on his opponent’s slender neck, savouring the moment of triumph and the feel of a pulse against it, then sharply sank his teeth into that pale flesh. Closing his lips around the wound, he started to suck.

***

Malcolm tried to rear back at this intrusion of his flesh, but his attacker was far too strong and held him almost immobile. He still had his wings out and considered briefly just taking to the skies, but an image of him leaving half his neck behind in this demon’s mouth shot through his brain, and he discarded the idea. Sooner or later this lookalike vampire or freak would finish, and then Malcolm could show up how fucking hard an Alpha of the Flock could kick his undead fucking bollocks. He ignored the erection starting in his trousers and silently cursed Jamie as well.

The little runt had bit him only last night, just before he’d been pulled into this London that was not the London he knew, and fuck if that wasn’t a fantastic erotic moment, he didn’t know what was. An Alpha doesn’t get bitten, his rational mind tried to tell him, but he had no control over the brainless organ currently swelling in his trousers, or his back as it arched into his double’s touch.

***

Yes, this was what he’d needed. God, he had been so thirsty. The blood shot through his body like wildfire, threatening to overwhelm him, tasting of strength and furious power and ohgodyes - fierce grandeur and sensuality and…flight? Malcolm took a few more swallows to confirm this and yes, his imposter tasted of the skies and feathers and freedom. Not as coppery as a human’s blood, or as spicy as a true shapeshifter’s.

This other Malcolm was something he’d never encountered before. His blood was a heady draught; whoever this winged freak was, he was obviously powerful in his own realm. He sucked harder and pulled his body tighter to his own; the sensation of both their erections pressing against each other making him want to grind and undress and take this midnight feast to bed with him.

Whoever or whatever he was, he was certainly giving Malcolm a fight, clawing at his back with talon-like hands, beating him about the head with great grey wings with a force that could break an ordinary human’s bones.

Malcolm finally raised his head, licking the last drops off his fangs and carefully pinching the wounds shut. Nae use draining such an interesting food source dry.

"I thought you’d taste like fucking chicken."

"You’re a fucking cocksucker," his twin snarled back. "Bet you’re down the docks of a night with a fucking gob like that, drainin’ sailors’ balls!" Well, his mirror likeness certainly had the swearing down pat. And the attitude. But really, wings?

"You’ve got a fucking filthy mouth fer an angel, ye know. Ye fallen? Gave Satan one too many hand shandies, yeah?"

***

"Fuck off, Edward Cullen." No one fucking spoke that way to Malcolm F Tucker, Alpha of the Flock…not even someone who, by all appearances, was also Malcolm F Tucker. He spread his wings once more and ran for a takeoff, but that fucking fanged double of his had grabbed his leg by the ankle.

"Nobody walks, or fucking flies, away from Malcolm Fucking Tucker when he’s talkin’!” the fanged menace snarled, his eyes glowing in the winter night like twin sodium lamps. “I’m willin’ tae bet ye can’t fly with me hangin’ on,” he said, and he wrenched downwards and proved his point — Malcolm crashed to the ground and instinctively flared his wings out to slow his descent.

"And what the cunting fuck are those fucking things doin’ coming out of ye back anyway?”

Malcolm brushed the dirt of London — discarded fag ends and road grit — off his wings and fluttered them a few times to shake the rest of the muck off into his assailant’s face. “Says the fucker with eyes that look like spotlights at a fuckin’ strip club and teeth ye could open beer cans with!”

***

He had to concede that point to his double, but the important thing was, he was something interesting and new — ennui was ever a danger for an immortal — and he promised to deliver the fight of his life if he took him to his bed, something which only his pet wolf Jamie, or even his sire Julius, could usually provide.

It was a thought that he definitely liked, and certain parts of him liked even more. This other Malcolm had blood that was an extremely powerful aphrodisiac as well as those great wings that must add spice to bedroom antics. He was also sporting an erection under grey Armani that matched Malcolm’s own.

The two mythical beings stood staring at each other, silent, aroused, simultaneously itching for a fight and straining for a fuck. Suddenly Malcolm laughed. “Ye got a point there, ye fucking overgrown pigeon. Drinkin’ from Jamie is sometimes like opening a fucking beer can after he’s had a few.” A sudden thought crossed his mind. “He’s no’ a werewolf where ye come from, is he?”

Silence. His twin merely stared at him, his expression eloquently and wordlessly saying it all: he thought him a fucking idiot.

"Oh don’t fucking tell me, your Jamie has got wings too."

"Aye, an’ he flies like he’s drunk all the time."

Malcolm grabbed his twin’s tie, still looped around his neck, and yanked, ensuring that any attempts to fly away would only cause him to choke himself. “You’re fucking coming with me, Big Bird,” he hissed. “And then we’re going to have a very long talk about where the fuck ye came from and how ye got those great cunting things on yer back.”

With that, the vampire fledgling led his prey into the London night.

He pulled the creature into a deserted-looking alleyway, seized with the urge to explore his body, to reassure himself that those enormous things on his back were real and not just some stress-induced hallucination.

"Think I can pull on them an’ see how they’re attached?"

"I don’t know. Can I pull on yer fucking cock an’ see how it’s attached?"

They were indeed real, and attached, and the most beautiful fucking things he’d ever seen: decadently silky-soft, a delicate shade of dove grey with a silvery sheen to them, delightfully warm and responsive to the touch.

He started gently stroking his wings, at the ultra-sensitive place where they met his back. The other man gasped and arched into his touch, his wings quivering as if caught in a breeze. Malcolm filed that information away for later.

Having successfully distracted him, he pinned him to the wall and bit his neck, allowing himself to taste the flying freak’s blood again. He needed it, needed to have more —

Oh, it was addictive, seductive, it tasted of feathers with the sweetness of honey, of open skies and overwhelming power, it burned slightly going down and made him feel unstoppable.

So new. So interesting. So wild and savage and bloody beautiful, with immense silvery wings and blood like fucking adrenaline and supercharged Viagra. He wasn’t sure whether he could control his instinct to feed — or fuck — around him.

He took his lips away — reluctantly — from this new species of man, and sealed the wound with a drop of his own blood nicked from a fingertip. Feed or fuck, that was the question. Malcolm may not have as many years behind him as his sire, but even he knew when blood loss became too much for a person to recover from.

And this food was interesting. And fucking horny, if that trouser stick was anythin’ tae go by.

"Do communications directors with wings still fuck?" he asked, returning his hands to the base of those huge wings. "Or do ye lay eggs or somesuch shite?"

"Do vampire communications directors fuck, or do ye just come dust and fucking formaldehyde?" he shot back. The multiple feedings had taken a toll; his skin was even paler than it usually was, which combined with his grey hair, eyes, and wings, gave him a rather washed-out look.

"You’re funny. I like funny," he said, and truth be told he was somewhat relieved that this alternate dimension Malcolm wasn’t too much of a total fucking tosser. The hair was longer and fluffier; the shoulders were wider, the waist tight, the arms less skinny; and of course there were the great wings, but the speech and gestures were identical to his own. A thought struck him, and he snorted in amusement. "Would it be fucking or masturbation, having sex with yeself?"

"Either way, it’s fucking queer." A smirk lifted the corner of the other Malcolm’s thin lips; he was already starting to recover, the colour returning to his skin. "Are ye queer, Yer Distinguished fucking Undeadness? Do ye suck off men in the bogs?"

"Do ye suck them off in midair? Give Heathrow Air Traffic Control a good show?"

"You would fucking know a thing or two about sucking, wouldn’t ye?"

"Listen, ye great flying fairy, as much as I’d like tae stand out in a fucking alley having a bitch fight, I’m gagging fer a coffee, and I’m taking ye with me. Christ knows how we’ll hide those cunting things though."

"Vampires drink coffee?" His double sounded genuinely confused.

"We can consume human food and enjoy the taste, but it doesn’t satisfy, and we’d starve without blood." Another thought hit him. "Forget the wings. How the fuck am I going to explain a fucking identical twin from another universe?"

His double cocked his head in thought, looking more and more like a fucking bird as he did so, and then shrugged. “Well, you’re not planning on taking me out to any dinner parties, an’ as soon as I work out how tae get the fuck outta here I am gone, so who the fuck’ll know?”

The great bird’s eyes went wide as he thought of something else. “Wait. Don’t tell me you live with Sam as well?”

"What? No! And why? Are you fucking married to her?!"

What kind of fucking world was this winged cunt from?! People flyin’ about, Sam married tae his double —

"Only sort of, but I’m no’ explaining that tae ye, I need a fucking coffee and unlike you, you fucking undead bag of bones, I actually need one.” He shook off Malcolm’s semi-hug and fluffed his wings a bit before folding them behind his back. “And ye needn’t worry about the looks, neither.” A look of intense concentration crossed his face, and his wings started to retract back into his body.

Malcolm watched, befuddled, as eighteen fucking feet of feathers, bone, and muscle was somehow sucked into this man’s back, leaving only a couple of discoloured streaks next to his shoulder blades.

"There. See? Now where’s this fucking coffee, before I see what shredded fucking vampire tastes like?"

They walked in silence for most of the way, Other Dimension Malcolm having shrugged a grey zip-up fleece over his naked torso. “Always keep a spare with me, I’ve wrecked five suits this year,” he’d said by way of explanation, and Malcolm was pondering as to who to ask to get this weirdo back to whatever place spawned him.

A horrible realisation sprung to mind, and he stumbled momentarily. Jamie would be at the house, as it was a feeding night. Fuck!

***

He’d made him climb into his house through the fucking window — and in this world, the architecture was not made to accommodate wings — and stay in the bedroom until he could shoo his pet wolf away for the night. Malcolm was gratified to see that at the very least, his undead twin had some taste in interior design, and the same love of pastel coloured throw pillows.

The bed was too small for him, not large enough for his wings to comfortably lie flat on, no matter how he positioned himself. A twinge of homesickness jolted through Malcolm’s body, and he wanted to be back in his own house, where Sam — fertile, ravenously sexual Sam — was. She’d be reaching the end of her current Heat cycle soon. Fuck, what if she needed to mate and he wasn’t there? What if she went to —

His reverie broke when a familiar voice raged downstairs. Jamie.

"What do ye mean ‘I’ve already eaten,’ ye fucking poof?" Apparently this universe’s Malcolm regularly snacked on his senior press officer.

"Exactly what I said, I thought wolves had fucking good hearing?" And Jamie was…a wolf?! What kind of fucked-up world was this?

Malcolm heard a loud thump, the sound of a wall being punched. “Fine, right fucking fine. Ye don’t want tae drink me fucking dry and have your day in the sun. Hope ye burn by the way, but can we no’ have a quick fuck, anyway?”

Jesus Christ. His double was a vampire, who fed off a werewolf who happened to be Jamie, and they shagged a lot too. Malcolm sat on the edge of the bed and ran a hand over his face.

***

"We did that in the office, ye greedy fuck!" Malcolm shouted, sniffing the air. "And ye’ve been drinking, too, and eatin’ street bums, I told ye it makes the blood taste like week-old half-digested alkie shite—"

Which Malcolm would usually tolerate — barely — in exchange for the immunities werewolf blood conferred, but not tonight, when he had a far tastier food source hidden in his bedroom, and he didn’t care to explain to Jamie that it was his fucking half-bird twin from another dimension.

Speaking of said food source, Malcolm stopped shouting in mid-sentence as he heard the click of the upstairs window opening.

He forcibly knocked Jamie out of the front door with a concession that they’d catch up tomorrow yeah? Malcolm’s just fucking tired an’ wants some sleep and not tae wrestle with a werewolf tonight.

Thankfully, Jamie bought it, since he only called Malcolm a cunt four times as he stalked away into the London night. For Jamie, that was practically a declaration of love. Malcolm hoped the bloody wolf would find some better, and sustainable, food sources. Bad enough that Jamie’s blood always tasted of fags.

Running up the stairs with blinding  vampiric speed, he entered his bedroom.

"Hey! Get tae fuck back here!" Malcolm shouted, opening the door to find an open window, the curtains fluttering in the wind, some silvery feathers floating to the floor… and light footsteps on the rooftop as his double readied for another takeoff.

In the blink of an eye, he shot across the room and out of the window, using his undead strength to leap up the walls and onto the roof in a series of moves that not even a Russian gymnast could pull off.

"Oi! Pingu! Get your arse back here. I can’t find a way tae get ye home if you go flapping about over London an’ get shot down by some chinless fuck who forgot it’s not pheasant season." Damn this other Malcolm, he listened less than fucking Murray did.

***

Hmph, as if a fucking Alpha couldn’t elude some human tosspot. Malcolm leapt off the edge of the rooftop, spreading his powerful wings and flapping them a few times to get some lift. His twin may be close behind, expertly keeping his footing on the roof, but he had the advantage in the open. He even felt confident enough to give Count Fuckula the two-fingered salute as the winds swept him up.

He’d been right — vampires couldn’t shift into bats and fly, although judging by the throaty scream from below, his double definitely wanted to.

The cold night air ruffled his feathers and cleared his mind a bit. What the hell had he been doing before he got dropped here? He’d not asked the Malcolm of this world if magic or other fucking sparkly shit existed.

He circled for a bit, high enough to stay out of camera range but not so high he couldn’t breathe, and tried to think rationally about this catastrofuck. Fact one: he was in another dimension. Fact two: vampires and werewolves existed here. Fact three: he couldn’t remember how he got here. Fact four: soaring about on his wings was cleansing, but wasn’t doing anything to get him home to his horny Chosen. Fact five: he wanted to find out what other creatures inhabited this world.

Pondering these, Malcolm soared in lazy circles high above his double’s house. If only there were some fucking pigeons he could hunt down.

***

Malcolm sighed and ran a thin hand over his face, then made his way back inside. Right, now the winged bastard was just fucking taunting him. There had to be a way to get him inside, before the neighbours noticed.

"If ye want to come in an’ talk like a fucking normal person, and not have yer picture in the fucking Weekly World News next to the headline ‘Flying Spin Doctor Spotted in Hammersmith,’” Malcolm called, “I have some tea and curry I was saving for some journalists.”

He was encouraged by the sight of his flighty twin hovering in front of him, considering the offer. He waited, and tried not to gawk too much at those enormous wings that gleamed silver in the moonlight. The man had to have a wingspan twenty feet wide. Jesus fucking Christ.

His twin eventually came to a decision and back-winged away from the house. Stupid fucking idiot, he thought, bracing himself for a long night of chasing this twat across the rooftops.

A second later, he found himself flat on his back on the floor. “Sorry about that,” his double said from behind without any hint of remorse, “you were in my fucking way.” The fucking avian freak had flown at full speed through his fucking open window, knocked Malcolm flying, and skidded to a halt near the wall.

"How the —?!"

"Folded the wings back at the last second. Christ, ye never watched a nature programme? Hawks do it all the fucking time."

Malcolm surveyed his room as he pulled himself to his feet. Anything that had been on a table or a shelf was now on the floor; ornaments sent flying by the fucking Tornado Bird.

Malcolm was determined not to show a reaction to either the blatant display of power or the smirk on his double’s face, and instead went into the kitchen.

After cooking his “fucking famous chicken curry” — tender boneless chicken simmered with tomatoes, coconut milk, sweet potatoes, and aromatic spices, served over jasmine rice — he watched in astonishment as his double wolfed down enough food for five normal humans. It was a good thing that he didn’t need to eat ordinary food anymore…

"You eat fucking worse than Jamie!" he’d exclaimed when his companion finished his third plate and reached for more.

His double carried on heaping his plate full and snorted. “Wrong, he’d have his feet on the table an’ be farting by now.”

Seems some things don’t change between universes, which actually relaxed him a bit. Jamie may not be a werewolf in this other world, but apparently he still had the same savagery and lack of manners as ever.

Malcolm wondered if Jamie’s winged counterpart had ever buzzed the control tower at Heathrow for a laugh.

***

Malcolm was gratified to see that no matter what universe, some things stayed the same. At least his double could fucking cook; the curry was a bit less spicy than his own recipe, but still delicious. He did wish that the bloodsucker would quit fucking staring at him like a retarded owl as he ate. Flight required a lot of fucking energy to sustain, ye know.

At last he was satiated, and folding his wings behind his back, got up to put the kettle on for tea.

He couldn’t resist, however, taking a peek in the various cupboards around the kitchen to see just what a vampire stored.

Tea of twenty different types was the same in all universes, same with the red wines displayed on a rack near the oven. A 12-pack of Stella in the fridge spoke louder than words as to how often Jamie was here, likewise the Sugar Puffs in the cupboard under the sink.

The rest of the cupboard’s contents were actually not that different than his own, excepting of course the presence of Sam — no herbal teas in this Malcolm’s cupboards — and the couple of blood bags stored right at the back of the fridge under a large bag of satsumas.

A few cups of Assam tea and a few satsumas later, and Malcolm was perched on the dinette chair, seeking information.

"So, ye’ve got fucking vampires and werewolves in this world. What else? Witches? All that other Harry Potter shite?”

***

Malcolm scowled. “Go runnin’ in between platforms at King’s Cross and all ye’ll get is your skull splattered all over the place,” he shot back, “and if that fucking abortion of a book Twilight exists in your world, throw it the fuck out, because it isn’t true at all.” Malcolm took a savage bite from his satsuma — he wasn’t hungry, it was just to mute the taste of that amazing Winged blood that still lingered in his mouth — and noticed his double practically hanging on his every word.

"Witches, yeah, we got those, and they are fucking annoying. You can’t guess their age, and every last one of them can cast fire spells at you. Feed from a witch without her permission, and you’d better be prepared tae spend a week in bed regrowing your skin, because she’ll make ye look like fucking Hellraiser. Nicola’s one of them."

He had expected a bit of a reaction to that, but not the projectile mouthful of tea that hit him. “NICOLA FUCKING MURRAY?!” his double screamed, eyes large as dinner plates. “She’s a fucking witch?!”

Malcolm nodded and wondered inwardly if it was worth the collateral damage that would inevitably result to the house if he told him who his Sire was.

He decided to change the subject instead. “Now it’s your turn.”

His counterpart hesitated for a moment. “There are rules of secrecy and all that shit,” he said. “I had to pluck my Jamie bare fer breaking them once.”

He ran a thin hand over his mouth — a gesture identical to one he made himself sometimes, when thinking or frustrated, and said with a sly smile, “But I don’t think the rules would even apply in another fucking dimension, would they?”

"Rules? Fuck that load of bollocks." Malcolm snorted. "You could go out and drink some twat completely fucking dry right in front of his best mates if ye wanted. There isn’t rules stopping ye but, there are punishments, and they tend tae be terminal." He turned the hot mug of tea around in his hands and tried to think of how to explain this without sounding completely fucking insane. "There are older vampires, and older means more powerful, who would happily rip your head clean off for exposing vampires tae the common public. Threatens their cosy little existences, yeah? And then, there’s the killers. Professional vampire hunters. All of them have supernatural powers and can track ye across a whole continent if they want to. Thank fuck there are never many of those cunts."

"That’s fucking Sunday school next to the Flock’s non-stop political games and dominance battles," his counterpart said. "Only way to settle a question of status or an insult to yer precious honor is by a midair, fucking tooth-and-claw duel. And I’ve been a fucking Alpha for ten years, kicking the bollocks off of every cocksucker in Westminster, commoner or blue-blood, who’s tried to knock me off my perch." Implied: What does that fucking say about me?

"You’ve never been dragged halfway across fucking England because your fucking Maker called ye!" Malcolm retorted and then slumped back in his chair. "Ye know, we could snipe like this all fucking night and all it would prove is that you’re as much a total cunt as I am."

He thought that would stop the question of his status in the Vampire community coming up. This other Malcolm was, if he wasn’t just boasting, at the top of the pile, a true fucking pharaoh and he, he was just a fucking fledgling.

***

Perched on the edge of a chair not made for winged humans, Malcolm only smirked at his undead double’s outburst, but inwardly he was grateful that at least here, no one knew the truth: he was born to Wingless parents, considered less than the most lowly Winged-born commoner among most of his kind, had spent years literally clawing his way to the top, and even then, most of his status in the Flock still came from his high-born Mate.

That was a thought. “So, what’s Sam in your reality?”

"If—" said the vampire, "—if it had been anyone else who asked that, I’d be stringing their vertebrae ontae coloured threads for my niece. But, you’re me, aren’t ye?" He took another mouthful of tea, fuck it was getting cold, and tried to explain about Sam. "She’s my PA, which ye knew, she’s got brown hair and is a very lovely lass, which ye also knew." Aye, and I bet ye’re sleeping with her too, ye cunt, Malcolm thought. “She’s no’ a witch, nor a vampire or a werewolf, I dinnae know what she is exactly — I think there’s a bit of vampire hunter in there, but she’s never tried tae kill me. Yet.”

They spent some more time discussing the differences—and similarities—between their versions of the politicians and civil servants they worked with. Malcolm was quite flabbergasted that his counterpart’s Julius Nicholson was a Master vampire, especially as in his world, the Lord of Arnage was a “poncy inbred aristocrat who probably folds his underwear an’ apologizes when he comes, with naught but a fancy name and stunted white wings no bigger than a fucking chicken’s.” He didn’t know that Nicholson was the vampire his twin called Maker and Sire.

***

Malcolm’s head spun. A world without Winged, a world where vampires and werewolves prowled the night, and more importantly – a world where he wasn’t an Alpha, but fucking Lord Baldemort was? Too strange, almost surreal, and, like many animals taken out of their natural habitat, he instinctively reached for something familiar.

He took hold of his double’s shirt and pulled him in close, mentally shrugging before he locked lips with his cold and undead duplicate.

There was no resistance at first, which made him more bold. Sex as status, now here was ground he knew. This was a scene enacted hundreds of times by him and every other Alpha male of the Flock to establish the pecking order. So what if it is with, technically, himself? He was still the fucking Alpha.

“You never answered the fucking question. Is this sex or some fucked up version of masturbation?” his undead twin growled when they parted for air. Eyes met for an instant, amber-gold and storm-grey – two predators sizing each other up – and then Malcolm’s wings rose in clear dominance and he leapt for the vampire, initiating another kiss that was a battle of tongue and teeth and tonsils.

The fangs certainly added another thrill to proceedings; when he ran his tongue against them, he could actually feel the man he clamped tightly to him shudder, much the same as he did when Sam or Nicola ran her hands down his wings.

The greatest benefit of literally fucking yourself, Malcolm had to admit, was the fact that your double knew exactly what to do, where to touch, with just enough difference to make things interesting. Wings and fangs gave exciting, new and extremely pleasurable sensations when stroked or pressed.

***

Somehow they made it up the stairs despite their snogging and pawing at each other like a couple of fucking horny teenagers in the back seat of a car.

Without any further words, Malcolm picked his winged double up and threw him on the bed, and practically pounced.

He’d just managed to get his trouser fly undone when his twin kicked him in the stomach, grabbed his shoulders and flipped him over. With a hard beat of his wings, he’d lifted himself off the bed and straddled him.

Oh, yes, so he’s going to fight to be the one on fucking top, is he? Malcolm F Tucker would give him a fucking fight. With a hard shove he pushed his twin off the bed.

"Even Jamie does nae put up this much of a fucking struggle," the duplicate said, fluttering his wings in what could be either frustration or amusement. "Do ye want tae fuck or not?"

"Ye fuck that rabid dog?" Malcolm snarled, ignoring the fact that he also fucked that rabid dog. "I’m a fucking predator, ye cunt! I like my food or fucks tae fucking move!” His hand shot out, grabbing his double by the neck, and he slammed him to the floor.

"Funny thing," the feathered freak said. "So do I." Before Malcolm knew it, his shirt had been ripped off him with an effortless movement of his twin’s hand and flung aside, his thin, supple body exposed. The twin was clawing at his back and planting brutally passionate kisses on his neck, all the while wrapping a long leg around his own and trying to push him over onto his back.

He must be a fucking force of nature in his own world — but he’d be staked before he’d let a glorified pigeon go above him. Malcolm wasted no time in pushing his double  back onto the bed and climbing over him.

His double’s skin was pale and unusually warm under his lips as he kissed and licked a trail up his chest, and he didn’t seem to have an ounce of fat on him; his rangy frame was all wiry, whipcord-lean muscle. He thought he saw unfamiliar muscles moving gracefully under his skin as his wings fluttered, or muscles moving in a different way.

His flawless wings were unfurled to their full, breathtakingly large span and draped over the bed on either side of him, and Malcolm slowed down and leisurely ran his long fingers through the silky-soft feathers, watching as they sprang back from his touch. Underneath the feathers was the powerful musculature that allowed him to outrace a vampire.

When his hands made their way to the place where his wings met his back, and started stroking the soft grey down that marked the transition from skin to feathers, he actually fucking screeched, like a fucking falcon, baring his teeth and bucking his narrow hips wildly against his erection, his twin’s cock pressing and shifting against his own in a delicious friction that made him see stars.

Such a beautiful, rare creature. So strong. So wild. So interesting. What a thrill it would be to conquer him, to possess him body and soul, to suck him dry and have all that potent, sweet blood to himself, feel the power in it surging through his veins.

He placed a hand on the creature’s neck, rubbing his thumb over his pulse. The winged double’s hands began to claw at his back, but he made no protest as he began to kiss his way down to the spot that was a siren song to his vampiric nature.

And oh, how it sang to him!

The other Malcolm arched his neck, his next words forced out through gritted teeth. “Fucking do it already, ye short-fanged cunt!” His grey eyes were half-closed, heavy-lidded, insanely long pale eyelashes lowered.

His blood pounding in time to his twin’s, he slid his arms around him, his fingers brushing over his soft wings. Malcolm planted a soft kiss over the spot before piercing the delicate skin with his fangs.

His twin’s blood was an erotic rush against his senses, the punch of power staggering. He could feel its effects on him already — feel himself growing even stronger, filled with energy, his senses sharper and clearer. His whole body seethed and surged with power; he felt like he could take on fucking anyone and win — even his own Sire.

Acting on instinct, he returned the favor, pumping drops of his own venom into his double’s system as he took his blood, felt his body arch and shudder against him — he hadn’t held anything back, hadn’t stopped at merely making him aroused. He ran a hand through his clone’s wavy silver hair, down his long neck, across sinewy shoulders before settling on the sensitive downy feathers at the base of those sleek, strong wings. The wings trembled, tremors flowing through the feathers, as his long clever fingers stroked and smoothed.  His other hand snaked down to the silky skin of his twin’s cock, warm and hard and heavy between the long legs, the tip wet. His thumb flicked and swirled over the head, catching the trickle of pre-come and smearing it around the tip, before stroking in earnest with deft, practiced motions. The wings, which had stilled momentarily, started beating harder, feathers ruffled as he continued to stroke them.

The other Malcolm came apart in his arms with the cry of a hawk, his blood sweet and intense with the flavor of his desire.

***

Vampire venom, the single most powerful aphrodisiac on this earth, rushed through Malcolm’s veins and up along his wings, chasing through the thousands of fine capillaries there, rendering him speechless. He could only howl as the sensations built up and up and his predatory twin purred against his neck, those wickedly long fangs deep in his jugular vein. His wings flared out and beat hard, sending things flying and raising goosebumps along his double’s skin.

It felt like flying, like he was actually having sex in mid-air. He’d never had a proper mating flight in his life, but fuck, it had to feel like this; he was gasping, clawing, thrusting, willing to do fucking anything to get to the nuclear-level orgasm he knew he’d have with this. The vampire clone of himself was stroking his hand along his cock in exactly the way he loved – firm grasp on the shaft, but gentle, almost teasing, coaxing of a thumb along the sensitive head. If he closed his eyes he could almost imagine it was Sam’s fingers touching him —

— a dream shattered when his double pulled his fangs out of his neck and growled: “fucking touch me, ye selfish cunt!”

***

A hand on Malcolm’s neck made him shudder and grind his hips against his winged double, and when the bloody feathered freak shot a hand down between their bodies and grasped his cock in surprisingly strong fingers, it was all he could do not to cry out. The blood rampaging through his veins was screaming at him. He needed to fuck, hard and now. Running his fingers through his twin’s hair and raking his nails along the scalp, he leaned in for a series of scorching kisses up his neck.

This should have merely felt like having a quiet, ordinary wank; after all, these were technically his own hands, running up and down his cock in practised movements. This was better than that, far more intense. For all their similarities, there was still the thrill of the unpredictable. His twin knew to stroke hard and fast for a few seconds, then slow and teasing for a while before repeating. He couldn’t predict the pattern, but it was fucking glorious, his entire body electrified with sensation as his double’s blood pounded through his veins in an ecstatic frenzy.

He noticed things about the hands as well – he really did have large hands, and his twin’s were as powerful as an eagle’s talons. They nearly wrapped all the way around him twice, and the calluses on fingertips roughened by age felt abso-fucking-lutely in-fucking-credible rubbing away at his erection.

Stray feathers had fallen out and lay scattered across the bed like rose petals on a honeymooner’s hotel bed, delicate pieces of grey downy fluff sticking to skin and bedsheets alike. The vampire briefly wondered if his double slept in a fucking nest at home, a train of thought interrupted by the hand enclosing his cock, squeezing tighter, starting to move up the shaft. His brain short-circuited, even his craving for the powerful blood of his double shouted into temporary submission by the all-encompassing force that was Malcolm’s hypercharged sex drive.

Which, when he licked a hand and grabbed his double’s cock once more, proved to be a trait in both universes. The feathered fiend gasped, thrusting his hips to get more of his hard length into Malcolm’s fingers.

“Gonna make ye fucking come, ye bloodsucker,” his twin said, fluttering his wings in emphasis as he ran a thumb along the head. “Gonna make ye come all over me.”

“Not if I make ye come first, ye fucking fairy!” Drunk with raw power, he’d thrust his knee between the other Malcolm’s legs, forcing them apart, splayed his hands over the taut muscles of his back, his fingers caressing the sensitive inner edges of his wings. He felt energized, larger-than-life, fucking heroic. He was glowing, power ready to burst from his skin.

***

Malcolm moved his hips, slowly, seductively. When he moved his wings to brush his feathers over his double’s skin and leaned in for another scorching, lip-biting kiss, the vampire moaned in need.

His vampire counterpart was more savage, more vicious than he was, pulling at his feathers hard enough to hurt. Malcolm was put in mind of Jamie, with all that ruthless, restless energy.

But Jamie would, eventually, submit to Malcolm. This was obviously not going to be the case here. The vampire was on top of him, hands on some very nice places, and Malcolm was content for a while to lie there and let the sensations wash over him.

Then his double tried to pin him down and spread his legs, and that was not going to happen. Alphas did not get held down, not by anyone, not in any universe.

With a blast of air that sent every item in the room flying, Malcolm sprang up from the bed and used his wings to drive him forward – lunging and slamming his double up against a wall with a force hard enough to cause serious damage to a normal human.

“No,” he growled, puffing out his feathers. “You do not pin me down like a fucking specimen at the Natural History!”

The vampire’s eyes burned even brighter, the amber light reflecting off silver wings, as he hissed in his face. “I’ll do what I like, Tinkerbell. I’m fucking immortal – ye are not.”

***

The chair had been one of Malcolm’s favourites, but it was destroyed in a second, smashed to pieces by a hit from his duplicate’s mighty wings as they beat in anger. He snarled as the wings continued their destruction of his room and he lunged forward, biting into his double’s strong shoulder and gripping his cock with all the supernatural strength he had.

Walls shuddered and cracked as they thumped back against them – alternating which Malcolm was being flung against things as they carried on tearing the room apart in their fight for dominance, tugging and biting and clawing at each other. A desk broke in two as he slammed his double over it; a careless movement of wings sent a lamp crashing to the floor. In snarling outrage, Malcolm catapulted forward, hurling his winged twin against the wall.

Any insults Malcolm had in mind were swiftly cut off — his counterpart had yanked his head forward by his close-cropped hair and captured his mouth in a kiss that set his every undead nerve ablaze. Before he could do anything about it, the other man had taken hold of his cock in an iron grip.

Long limbs entangled, teeth sinking into flesh, hands slicked with sweat sliding over erections that grew more urgent by the second; the sound of their profanity-laden moans almost drowning out the sounds of the master bedroom being steadily destroyed in a wild, animalistic pursuit of pleasure.

His double’s wings stretched out to their full span, touching either wall, and the speed of his hand on Malcolm’s cock increased. Even Jamie, with his werewolf blood, couldn’t take sex at this punishing pace. He wondered where he could get a man-sized bird cage for this fascinating creature —

— and then he felt it. The slow burning between his legs grew to a muscle-clenching crescendo, harder and far hotter than ever before, and he couldn’t help but moan at the sensations – made even stronger by hearing the exact same noises, throaty and deep, coming from his winged double, and seeing his own face flushed in ecstasy as if looking into a mirror. Both of them were so close to coming, thrusting involuntarily into each other’s fists and holding their double as tightly as possible.

Malcolm pulled his fangs from his twin’s skin and and moaned. “If ye stop now I will fuckin’ pluck ye, ye cunt. Pull me hard, hardest ye can!” he commanded, and he screamed as his double obliged with every ounce of inhuman Winged strength he possessed.

The orgasm ripped out of him a second later. He came hard and violently into his winged double’s powerful grasp, coating his hand and stomach in jets of scorching hot come as his body twitched and shuddered through the aftershocks.

Somehow he managed to keep his own hand moving during all that, and was gratified to feel the feathered freak’s cock swell momentarily in his grasp before a hawk-like screech split the air.

“Fuck, yes!” His double tipped his head back and came in heavy waves over his fast-moving hand, his wings trembling and shuddering along with the rest of him.

Still wrapped around each other, the two Malcolm Tuckers collapsed back into the bed, sweaty and sated.

Malcolm licked his hand clean and stroked one of his twin’s luxuriously soft wings, now draped over the man like a great grey feathery blanket. His eyes were closed, long lashes against sharp, high cheekbones, his lithe body sprawled awkwardly over the bed.

He ran his fingers down his double’s back, tracing over the lines of his lean, sweat-slicked muscles. A soft sigh escaped him. How he’d love to wake up next to that every morning, to break his fast by gorging on that remarkable blood. I shagged him out good and proper, he thought, stretching himself out on the sheets and pulling a pillow under his head. I could do with a bit of a nap myself; fuckin’ Prince Vultan here will be out cold for hours.

He was wrong about that; no sooner had he closed his eyes and let sleep overtake him, he felt the bed shift; his twin was off the bed and getting dressed in a matter of seconds.

***

Malcolm opened the door, spreading his wings in preparation for a takeoff. “Now, I’m sure this wee visit with ye was about as much fun as sticking my cock into an electric fly killer,” he said, “but it’s getting rather fucking late, and maybe yer witch Nicola might manage a spell or some shit that’ll get me back home without fucking up an’ setting her own arse alight. She’s always loved my wings—”

He could sense the undead auld cunt just behind him. The vampire was breathing heavily, his eyes glassy and glowing with that eerie golden-amber light.

"Oh, I don’t think so," the other Malcolm said. He smiled, revealing his fangs. "Not when I have a supply of fucking incredible blood right here in my house…and I’m hungry.”

It was far too fucking late in the day to have to fight his way through some twatting jumped-up bloodsucker, but it looked like he was going to have to, if he wanted to get the fuck out of here without being drained. Malcolm may not be able to tear the vampire limb from limb, as he could a Wingless human or even a Winged who wasn’t also ranked as an Alpha, but he could give the cunt a good beating and some firsthand fucking knowledge on exactly how he came to be the Alpha of Westminster. No fucking vampire was going tae keep Malcolm F Tucker in a cage.

***

Malcolm reached for his double’s throat, only to find his fingers clawing at empty air. The cunt had startlingly fast reflexes.

He heard a snapping sound from somewhere behind him, saw a blur of grey; then, a sharp pain in his shoulder. His twin had broken the leg off one of the small end tables to use as an improvised stake; only his own speed had saved him from a direct blow to the heart.

A vampire of sufficient age and power could survive being staked, of course, but he was just a fledgling, the immortality not yet that deeply set into his cells. When he wrenched the stake out of his shoulder, his blood started to soak through the sleeve of his suit jacket.

Sharp pinion feathers lashed across his face as the creature started hitting him with his wings. Snarling with rage, Malcolm lunged forward, grabbed him by the throat and hurled him against the window, the glass shattering upon impact. He grabbed the freak by the neck and slammed him to the floor. Sinking his teeth into his pale shoulder, Malcolm began to feed again; one mouthful, and the wounds to his own shoulder had completely healed. It was better if he didn’t take too much; it would only make the punchup less fun.

***

God my wings are going tae be a fucking wreck when I get back, he silently fumed. They were a mess right now — feathers torn and broken due to flying through open windows and fighting with a vampire; bloodstained down near his shoulders from where the vampire had bitten him. Sam was going tae have a hell of a time gettin’ this lot out. Fuck. He wanted out of this world and back home, and if it meant a few hours of fighting first, then that’s exactly what he’d do.

He would, however, be looking for an exit — once up in the air, he knew that the bloodsucker couldn’t fly, and while he could probably track him, he wouldn’t do it quite as fast. As long as this world’s Nicola kept to the same schedule his one did, he’d be landing on her lawn round about sunrise.

He leapt out of the way, barely managing to evade as his double, with eyes glowing and fangs extended, charged at the spot where he’d been just a second ago.

***

"Get back here, ya feather-arsed cunt!" Malcolm yelled, springing back up from the wreckage of his dining room set. The freak probably knew he couldn’t fight him head-on, not after he’d been bitten several times, and was using his considerable speed and agility to dodge him.

He could feel the effects of his blood on him already; he felt so much stronger and more energetic, almost as if he were twenty again. The air was filled with the sweet smell of it; in the course of the fight, his double had punched him until his knuckles bled, tipping his bloodlust over the edge, and was now busy kicking at Malcolm’s face, stomach, bollocks, and everywhere else he could reach.

Oh yes, when he caught him he was going to feed, drink his fill of him and glut himself on his power, and then he was going to fuck him silly. All he needed to do was keep him from going for a window. In an enclosed space, he had the advantage.

Malcolm’s hand shot out, grabbed the double by the throat, and slammed him against the wall.

***

Malcolm responded by kicking the double in the bollocks, hard. When the vampire released his grip on his throat and doubled over in pain, he used his wings to rain blows to his head, sending him to the floor.

"For that, I think I’ll take those pretty feathers of yours and use them to stuff my fucking pillows," he growled, lunging at his double, throwing a punch that found its mark. "Then I’ll drink my fill and fuck ye till ye can’t even fly straight."

"I’ll rip yer fucking fangs out and use them as cufflinks first." But he had no time for that right now; he had to concentrate on getting to a window or door, and he could barely see out of his right eye, now black and swollen shut.

Daylight, he thought as he tried to get to the front door, it’s got to be sunrise soon. Surely vampires went dormant? His opponent wasn’t showing any signs of slowing down and he knew, just fucking knew, that any damn advantage he could see he would take. He was Malcolm after all. Darker, sharper, and apparently with nothing to tie him down or care about, but it was still him. Malcolm Tucker without any shackles. He wondered for a second who’d created him a vampire.

Not much time for thought, that bloody vampire was jumping all over him like fleas on a dog’s back, yanking his wings as he did so. He managed to catch him in a stunning blow when he’d leapt up into the air, and Malcolm had clapped his wings over his head and sent him hurtling across the room. He’d not try that move again.

He could still admire him, though. Creature of pure darkness, seductive and utterly deadly. It was all he could manage to hold his own and lure him out the front door. It was a shame he kept trying to bite his fucking neck.

"Get off me ye fucking cunt, I’ll drag ye out intae the street so your neighbours can see your fucking reversing lights and fingernail-sized teeth!”

***

The first rays of daylight were hesitantly reaching over the horizon, and still Malcolm pursued his prey. He silently cursed himself for having turned down the opportunity to feed from Jamie, because his fucking skin was burning something fierce, but he ignored the pain; the burns were rapidly healing anyway, thanks to the winged creature’s blood.

He had to admire the man; he was a stranger to this world, but he’d deftly turned all the scraps of information he’d got against him. After all, whatever world he came from, he was still Malcolm F Tucker, the cunning Dark Lord of Spin; granted, one with wings and all the grandeur and deadly grace of a predator of the skies. Wild and fierce and fucking magnificent. He no longer had any doubt that his double truly was an Alpha male in his reality.

It only made him want to get him back into his bed more. The great bird had reached the front door, spread his wings, and started flapping them for a near-vertical takeoff, the force of it creating great gusts of wind that blew dust into his eyes, and still he held on, digging his fingernails into the flesh of his leg and ignoring the kicks to the face, paying no mind to the fact that he was being dragged bodily out the front door into the London dawn.

With a staggering show of force, the feathered freak shot upwards into the sky, leaving behind a sizeable chunk of his leg in Malcolm’s fist. He nearly threw it away, but then he remembered that heady elixir of power running through his double’s veins, and took it back indoors.

He rang Jamie and told him to “get your arse over here in five fucking minutes or I’m taking ye to the vet tae get yer knackers cut off,” and went to find some clean clothes. No urgency really, he knew where his twin was heading, or had a good idea, and even if he didn’t, he’d be able to track the blood trail he must be leaving from his damaged leg.

Nicola would keep him occupied, bloody woman would be delighted at a Malcolm who didn’t try and drink from her on a regular basis. Fucking soppy bint, she should get on fine with that aerial Pingu; his talk of flocks and joined and chosen and all that shite would be right up her fucking tunnel. Families an’ wives? Malcolm did not need those things.

Nevertheless, he felt fucking humiliated and once again uncomfortably reminded of his fledgling status. His Sire would have likely had Harvey fucking Birdman in pieces and scattered across the floor, or at least happily draining him to a desiccated husk by now.

Being created by a Master vampire did make him slightly higher in rank than common fledglings, but he was no fucking Master himself, a point that Julius was quite fond of making over and over again by dragging Malcolm out to his estate knowing full well he had to comply.

Give him a hundred years or so, and he was going to rip Baldy’s head off and install it as a public pissin’ spot at Glastonbury Festival. That was something though, he was fucking immortal. He doubted Chicken Little was.

He raised the chunk of flesh he’d taken from his duplicate to his lips and started to suck the blood from it, glorying in the taste of feathers and honey and fresh air.

His double’s blood was like unrestrained sex and violence and triumph; it rushed through him, it filled him up, drowned his senses in a firestorm of sheer power more erotic than any fantasy, more exciting, no less potent for not having been taken the usual way.  

He felt his cock grow hard, his body arch, shudder — and he came violently and hard into his trousers,  without having touched himself at all.

Gasping for breath and still drunk and giddy, quivering in ecstasy, Malcolm got up to change again, silently wondering what the fuck was taking Jamie so long.

About an hour of brooding and pacing later, Malcolm’s fantasies of gruesome revenge upon his Sire, his twin, and everyone else he could fucking think of were unfortunately interrupted by the pounding on the door, and the Motherwell-accented shouting that followed.

"What’s the matter, thought ye were too fucking good to feed off me now?" Jamie let himself in, made his way to the kitchen, and jerked open the refrigerator door for a can of Stella. "What tae fuck, yer house looks like a fucking tornado hit it!"

Ignoring, just this once, the fact that Jamie’s blood would taste rank after he’d just guzzled that fucking lager, Malcolm strode over and wrenched Jamie’s head back, exposing his throat.

"How would ye like to go on a wee hunt today?" he purred in Jamie’s ear. "You let me have a drink, nae sex though, don’t have time, and you get tae chase down the fucking shithead who wrecked my house. Deal?"

Jamie swallowed. “Seriously? You are going to let me out, in the day, to hunt down a person? Too fucking right I want in!”

Malcolm leaned in to bite that smooth neck and taste the supernatural blood, but Jamie interrupted. “I can bite him, yeah? Gnaw on him a bit?”

"Oh dear sweet pet." Malcolm chuckled and licked Jamie’s neck. "You can chew on him all you want. Just leave him alive…"

Malcolm’s teeth scraped up and down Jamie’s skin before sinking in. “But after I’ve drunk my fill of him and fucked him six ways to Sunday, I think I’ll let ye tear out his throat.”


	2. Malcolm meets Nicola

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm tries to find a way home - back to where his Winged people were and away from this world of vampires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written to segue neatly into the next chapter of the main wingfic 'On a F*cking Wing and a F*cking Prayer'

***

It was only Malcolm’s bird-like reflexes that saved him from being singed when he knocked on Nicola’s back door and was greeted by a fireball aimed at his face. “For fuck’s sake Malcolm!” She conjured another ball of flame. “Use the front door!”

Apparently this world’s Malcolm had an issue with personal boundaries. Fair enough, so did he.

***

Nicola took a closer look.

This wasn’t her Malcolm Tucker, but she’d be damned if he didn’t look exactly like him, except for the enormous grey wings that seemed to sprout out of his back. He was disheveled, feathers ruffled, bloody, broken, or sticking out of the wings oddly, making him look like a bedraggled little bird. The rest of him didn’t look any better; he sported a black eye, as well as bite marks and bruises in various states of healing.

She sighed. Nicola Murray, high priestess and head witch of the Westminster Coven, was going to have to remember her healing lore.

"You look like something the cat dragged in."

"Fuck off with the comedy, right?" He could only manage a hoarse whisper, but the voice, the accent, was Malcolm’s.

Whether he was playing some sort of game with her, or this was some kind of weird twin situation, she didn’t know. What she did know was that if this was truly Malcolm, and she didn’t patch him up, then his retribution would go a lot further than shouting at her in taxis.

"Never imagined ye with sparkly fucking powers," he growled, as she spun a glowing orb of white-gold light into a minor healing spell that would at least patch up the cuts and bruises. The wings though, dear goddess, they were in dire need of more than that.

"Hush up Malcolm, or I’ll seal your mouth shut again." She had done that once. A moment of elation of winning a fight had been swiftly destroyed when talon-like fingers closed around her neck and golden eyes bored into her skull.

She whirled the spell around a few times and then threw it at Malcolm who, to his credit, didn’t duck.

The golden light closed around him and a low-key hum rattled his teeth for a bit, but when the light vanished his skin was flawless. No cuts.

Nicola, for her part, was puzzling over the aura she was picking up from Malcolm. It wasn’t human at all, nor vampiric, or werewolf. Everything about him radiated fury and passion and power, as if he were a whirlwind of violence barely contained within the pale shell of his body. “What the hell are you?” she whispered, starting another spell that she hoped might fix the wings. It would, however, need her to touch him. She wasn’t sure how he’d take that.

In the light, she could see some more subtle differences between him and the Malcolm she knew: this Malcolm’s grey hair was slightly longer, almost fluffy; his body wiry, more defined and athletic-looking from the physical demands of flight, lean and lithe as a greyhound; his reflexes and behavior more like those of a bird of prey than a human.

He glanced at her, his grey eyes wary and keen. He was arresting-looking, and the predatory danger he emanated, the sense of menace and brute strength, only sharpened his natural charisma to a lethal edge. Nicola met his gaze and gulped. She took a deep breath and wondered what sort of dark Goddess would create such a compelling and deadly being.

"Shapeshifter? Fallen angel?"

"Fuck no."

Murmuring an incantation to Artemis — the protectress of wild animals seemed fitting — she started spinning another, stronger healing spell.

"I’m going to have to touch you for this, so don’t go biting my bloody fingers off."

He just shrugged and said nothing, a clear indication of how bashed up he was.

She reached out, her hands glowing blue from the invocation, and laid one on each wing, stroking downwards as though she were painting them  with the spell.

He’s fucking gorgeous, she thought, bringing her hands round to the downy feathers on his back. Such softness was so unexpected on Malcolm; she lingered there longer than she needed to, stroking through the feathers and across the powerful muscles underneath.

"Oh fuck, not you as well," Malcolm said, letting out an exasperated sigh. "Is there a Nicola Murray in any universe that doesn’t want tae jump my bones?”

So that’s what he was. A Malcolm Tucker from an alternate universe, one where, evidently, everyone had evolved with wings. She’d never paid much mind to magical metaphysics, theories and lore of the multiverse, the teachings on the interconnected worlds; it all seemed a bit too sci-fi for a witch.

Her hands went up to the base of his wings and started stroking the down feathers there as she healed the injuries to his back, observing how Malcolm screeched like an eagle and arched into her touch.

"Stop with the fucking foreplay, will you?!" he snarled.

Her hands continued to work at the muscles, rubbing the spell across his taut skin; truth be told, she did rather enjoy his reaction. “Foreplay?” she asked. “I’m healing you Malcolm, not ripping your trousers off.” Although that wouldn’t actually take much, as his clothes were in worse condition than he was. “I think some of James’ stuff should fit you and it’s not like the bloody git is ever around.” She pressed her fingers into a particularly damaged section of downy feathers and concentrated hard; being a witch specializing in offensive spells, it had been a long time since she’d had to remember this.

His reaction was a shock. Malcolm Tucker was actually… purring? Whatever that noise was, he was very obviously enjoying himself. A large erection already strained against what was left of his trousers; his breathing was getting heavier, his eyes dark and trancelike.

Well, if she’d ever wanted to know where the erogenous zones were on a fallen — well, pushed, more like — angel, she did now.

"I’m not in the fucking mood, Murray!" he snarled, folding his wings tightly to his back.

Very well, then; Nicola knew that the wings would now heal fine on their own.

She gasped; she’d been so enthralled with his great wings that she’d overlooked the fist-sized hole in his leg, hastily bandaged with a strip torn off his dress shirt. The blood had soaked through what was left of the trousers, and she knew it would get on the carpet.

"Why didn’t you say something, Malcolm?!" she exclaimed. "Your leg, it’s a bloody mess! Just what has been going on?"

"Did’nae notice it pet, the fucking wings hurt more than anythin’ else. Probably left it behind in that twat’s hand when I took off."

Scanning her memory for a flesh regrowth spell and thinking this might need the books out, she asked Malcolm who he’d been fighting with.

"Are ye completely fucking brain dead? Shit, yeah, course ye are. Your fuckin’ bloodsucker Malcolm kept tryin’ tae make dinner out of me and nobody ever fucking bites an Alpha of the Flock. Ever.”

Nicola made a note to herself to have him explain that one, but instead gingerly removed the makeshift bandage and wound a spell to stop the bleeding and soothe the pain while she consulted the scrolls.

At the application of the spell, Malcolm saw golden light around his leg, felt a soft, soothing warmth permeating into his ruined flesh. The pain was gone, and he started to breathe easier, though the wound wasn’t healing any faster than his normal recuperative powers would allow.

"I’ve stopped the bleeding and the pain as much as I could, but I’m going to have to brew a potion for this, Malcolm," she said, her expression apologetic. "I’m not a healer witch, I specialize in offensive spells."

"Nae wonder, what with your Malcolm running about trying to bite fucking chunks off everyone."

She pulled a small cauldron from the shelf and winked.

"Does he not get fucking fed or something? If he’s got my job, then there are always chinless Oxbridge prickless wonderboys tryin’ tae climb up your arse, and they’d all let him chomp on them. They’d come in their trousers."

She reached up for some chamomile and lavender that was on the top shelf and actually thought a bit about the situation, now she had a few minutes where someone wasn’t bleeding to death on her carpet. Malcolm was, to be fair, a pretty restrained vampire on the whole. She’d had to burn a lot more in her lifespan, which wasn’t actually the 43 years on her driver’s license but had another number in front, who were barely more than animals. Malcolm was Director of Communications and walked in the day when he had to.

"I honestly don’t know," she admitted. "He normally is very restrained — people wouldn’t react well to being told the supernatural live among them.”

The winged being, currently perched on an armchair plucking at and preening his wings, nodded. “Yeah, same fer us. Don’t want shots of political people goin’ flap flap across the skies in the Sun, do we? Although I did once take the opportunity tae shit on Piers Morgan’s car from up in a tree.”

She had to laugh at that. Malcolm could be terrifying more often than not, but he did have a sense of humour. It just only showed when he was happy, and everyone knew how fucking rare that was.

"Only thing I can think of," she said as she collected all the jars on the table and started to measure quantities out, "is that your blood is somehow different enough to anything in our reality in that it just makes him go totally feral."

Malcolm sat for a while in thought as she heated up the cauldron. “Lass?” he eventually said. “Got anythin’ in those fucking books that is a vampire repellant?”

"No. Garlic doesn’t work, neither does silver, and a cross only works if the vampire was a Christian before being turned."

Malcolm chuckled; no matter the universe, he hadn’t believed in that load of fucking floppy donkey dick since he was a child.

But in this particular universe, magic was real; he’d seen it, felt its effects on his body and mind. He didn’t know quite what to make of that.

"Ha! Well it’s at least daylight now, he’ll no’ be able to come after me for a while." He stopped at the look on Nicola’s face. "What?"

"Oh hell. He’s a daywalker, Malcolm. How, I’ve never quite been able to work out in all these years, but he can go out in the sun."

Shit.

"Still, I think we have a bit of time to eat." Nicola ladled the potion into a cup and convinced him to drink. It tasted fucking nasty and his throat burned as he swallowed it.

She returned from the kitchen with a pot of soup — savory and hot, with chicken, egg noodles, and vegetables — and some bowls, and urged him to eat.

"Not fucking hungry." He didn’t trust anything from a witch — especially a witch who was also Nicola fucking Murray.

"Healing wounds of that size and at that speed is taxing on the body."

Assured that it wasn’t poisoned or full of fucking love potion, Malcolm gratefully finished it off, along with enough pot roast, golden potatoes, and chocolate biscuits to feed her entire family for two days as Nicola watched in astonishment. He wished that people would stop fucking goggling at him as he ate. Fucks sake, haven’t they ever seen a bird eat before?

"It must be the werewolf’s blood," Malcolm said slowly, putting his mug of tea down.

"Pardon?"

Malcolm considered what he’d overheard. “Whatever it is, it’s temporary. His fucking tame wolf Jamie came over while I was at his house. He said he wouldn’t drink from him because his blood tasted like fucking congealed alkie shite. But when I dragged him out into the sunlight this morning—” He smirked. “I saw him fucking sizzle like a good cut of bacon.”

"How the—"

"Not fucking finished. Ye know who created him?"

No. She didn’t and told him so.

"Okay, Nic’la Murray is a fuckwit in both worlds, anyway," he smirked as a conclusion flashed to mind. "He can’t be an old vampire, else someone in Number 10 would notice him not aging on his rise up the ranks, and whatever else he is, he’s not stupid."

Nicola just sat, befuddled and lost as a visitor from another dimension with only a few hours’ experience solved questions she’d had for years. But then, he was still frighteningly clever Malcolm Tucker, casual use of vulgarity and all, and knew how his counterpart would think.

"So, he won’t talk about his maker, an’ I asked him several fucking times and he clammed up faster than a nun’s twat in a whorehouse. Bet he’s done the same to you."

"Can we please drop the disgusting imagery, Malcolm?" Nicola said. "I’m the only person who could probably get you home once we work out what happened, and I don’t like those words said around me."

Malcolm snorted. “My Nicola doesn’t complain.”

"Your Nicola can’t throw fireballs up your arse."

He had to laugh at that.

Nicola fetched some more tea, although she refused outright to get Malcolm what was apparently his favourite snack — raw pigeon — she instead brought over some cooked chicken from the fridge. Malcolm tore into it with his bare hands like he hadn’t just eaten an eight-course meal beforehand and carried on with his theory.

It was, he said, pretty obvious that whoever sired him wasn’t around much and embarrassed the fuck out of Malcolm, ruling out a stranger. If it had been family he would have said, because he’d attach the warning that if you go near his Mam or sister he’d skin you alive and use you as fucking bedsheets. It also couldn’t be anyone who was always at work because there would be epic fights on a regular basis, Malcolm not being the sort who takes kindly to orders.

"That leaves ye with two people it could be," he concluded. "Fucking Fleming or Nicholson, and close your mouth, ye look like an elephant’s cunt."

Nicola needed time to digest this information, and Malcolm needed rest, even though the potion was rapidly doing its work.

"You can sleep in the master bedroom," she said. "The bed’s not big enough for people with wings, but James is away on a business trip and it’s what I have."

"And if fucking Edward and Jacob show up at yer door?"

"Hospitality has ever been sacred to the Covens. You’ll come to no harm."

***

The bed wasn’t made for winged humans — nothing here was — but he’d managed to stretch out. He opened his eyes to see Nicola lying next to him, stroking the upper curves of his wings. His eyes weren’t tricking him — Glummy fucking Mummy was wearing actual fucking seamed stockings and a bra and knickers of white lace.

"The fuck do you think you’re doing?"

"I told you that hospitality is sacred to the Coven," Nicola whispered, continuing to stroke his wings, "and besides, sexuality is a very… potent source of magical energy.”

Malcolm had to admit, she looked fucking good; he’d bet actual fucking money that one of the first things witches learned was how to enhance their appearance.

But he really didn’t care to have his fucking life force sucked out of him, or whatever the fuck witches did with men.

"I’m fucking knackered!” He flicked his wing away from her grasp. “I’ve landed in another fucking world, got bit and beaten by fucking Lestat, now I’ve got him chasin’ me across London and fucking Sabrina now wants tae jump my bones. Fuck off.” Malcolm concentrated for a second or two and ignored Nicola’s bloody simpering as his wings folded back into his body. There. Fucking hurt after having them out for so long, mind, but kept them out of her sight.

This universe’s Nicola had a bit more backbone than his, he had to admit, she hadn’t left during that fucking rant. “Shame,” she said. “They were actually quite beautiful.”

He knew that, he’d heard it from her mouth a hundred times before. Well, from another Nicola, who was the same Nicola, and fuck did he ever want out of this place.

"Tell me you can get me home or you know someone who can." He sat up and ran a hand across his mouth. "I get enough shaggin’ done in my reality."

Nicola raised an eyebrow. “You mean—”

"— I’ve had Sam, an’ Jamie, an’ you a number of times, Julius Nicholson a few, even Dan Miller once or twice. Sex is fucking power, it’s status, it’s what keeps you at the top along with the fights. It’s only you fucking flightless humans who get all moral about it."

She smiled and ran a hand down his arm. “I’m not human Malcolm, I’m Homo mystica, the magical race.”

"And I’m Homo sapiens alatus, if ye want to get all fucking technical,” Malcolm shot back. “The Winged. Now let me fucking sleep before I drown ye in yer own spinal fluid.”

"You won’t feel tired after I’m through with you…"

The great political mind of Malcolm F Tucker fired up to deal with this situation. Deals and bargains and concessions, he knew all about — all the things you have to know to survive in the Westminster jungle. “Look,” he said after a moment’s thought, “if, and this is a big fucking if, ye could find even a scrap of one of those fucking scrolls in the Library of Alexandria you’ve got downstairs about how I got here, then I might be a little less inclined tae fly straight out of that window.”

Frustrated and horny witches were known for their patience about as much as hungry vampires were, but she listened. It seemed even a single line of text would satisfy him for now, and she really wasn’t going to magically force him to do anything. The Coven wouldn’t just dethrone her from the leadership for using magic to force someone to have sex against their will; they’d probably kill her as well. Humans were supposed to have nothing to fear from witches.

"Fine, we have a deal. Have you got anything on you I can use as a focus point? Car keys, wallet, photos?" A small folded photograph landed next to her and Malcolm turned over on the bed and mumbled severe, and probably anatomically impossible, retribution if anything happened to it.

She shrugged on a dressing gown and wandered downstairs to take a better look at this object that was hopefully going to find which dimension he’d come from. It was a simple photo taken at some event or something, there she was in the background, half out of shot. In the foreground was Malcolm himself, and Jamie and Sam having a bit of a laugh. Probably at her expense. It had obviously been taken by someone else, which would explain how Malcolm got it. He detested being in photos.

But this one he’d kept for some reason.

It took about ten minutes to set the various crystals and sigils up to start running a trace on the object. It was an odd use of the tracking spell, but she didn’t have the time to call Helen and make her search through the Archives. Witches didn’t really have a computer database; they kept to the Old Ways.

Setting it running with a gesture and a blue spark from her fingers, she went back upstairs. It would take at least fifteen minutes to run…

An idea occurred to Nicola. “You know, after the tracking spell finishes, I could use my scrying glass to look into your universe. I could check up on your world’s Sam Cassidy, if you’d like.”

There was a catch. There was always a fucking catch. That was the way it was in politics. I’ll scratch your back, if you scratch mine.

"But I’m running low on magical reserves after healing you—and as I said, sexuality is one of the best ways for a witch to restore herself," Nicola said, her voice all honey. "Yes, there are other ways, but meditation takes time we don’t have with a mad vampire tracking your scent, right?"

Really, Nicola thought, Malcolm Tucker, with his tall, lean build, fine features, and elegant hands, was quite attractive, a fact she tended to forget when he kept trying to take her blood. There were far worse options when it came to a partner to work sex magick with.

He’d been staring at her like she was prey for a few minutes and she couldn’t get away fast enough when he leapt across the bed and swept her hair away to reveal a ragged scar along her neck.

"Ha! Fucking knew it. You’re one of his fucking chomping pals as well.”

His face was practically elated, she noticed, but he wasn’t flying out of her window either. He was watching her with a wide grin and a "so what ye got to say about that then?” look in his eyes but there wasn’t any fear, which she hadn’t expected anyway — or anger either, which she had — only a look of wild triumph as he traced the scar with his long fingers.

"Yes, he bit me. Once." She brushed her hair back with her fingers and resettled it back around her shoulders. "It was in a lift, you see, and the lift broke, and—"

"—you went fucking nuts, right? A magical Murray is still afraid of closed spaces. Wonder-fucking-ful."

She spun up a small ball of blue lightning in one hand and threw it up onto the ceiling where it illuminated the bed in softly changing colours. “I’ll remind you,” she said, pointing upward, “that I’m still a witch and I can get that thing up there to send a bolt of lightning straight through your bloody balls at any point.”

"Ha! Ye’ve got more bite than my Nic’la, I’ll tell ye that. She’s a simpering fuck who thinks of nothin’ but her failed marriage and gettin’ me tae screw her on rooftops…not all that fucking different from you, actually.” Malcolm grinned, almost daring her to strike.

She didn’t.

Instead she pulled him close and pressed his thin lips to her own in a surprisingly slow, gentle kiss.

Ahh now this, this was familiar. No magic, no fucking vampires, just simple sex as a trade for something he wanted. This, he understood. Malcolm grasped her thighs, and hoisting her up to sit astride his legs, wrapped his arms round her waist. He glanced at either side of him; this room wasn’t really big enough for what he had in mind, but fuck it, Murray can buy new ornaments. Those were fucking hideous anyway.

He shrugged and a sudden gust of air sent Nicola’s hair ruffling and everything else flying. The silvery wings were back, immense and powerful, their full span exceeding the width of the bedroom. She could sense a joyous, fierce sort of pride in Malcolm as he spread his wings — like a peacock, perhaps, rejoicing over his beautiful tail. She couldn’t blame him one bit for being vain.

Malcolm swung Nicola into his arms with an easy strength that made her feel like a gently-reared Victorian lady from a period bodice-ripper, his whip-thin body wiry and warm and pressing against hers in ways that made her breasts swell and her nipples stiffen, the flesh between her thighs hot and slick.

His hands explored the heavy fullness of her breasts, the curve of her pert arse, before finding their way to under her knickers, his thumb teasing at her clit as his fingers started scissoring inside.

She can sense his feral smile against her neck, smell the powdery scent of his feathers. “I always knew witches were fucking sluts. Were you this wet when your Malcolm was biting fucking chunks out your neck?”

A sliver of ice cold shot across one wing and he jolted backward. “What tae —!”

Nicola held up a finger and blew across it like the proverbial smoking gun. “Call me a slut again and I’ll burn those wings clean off your back. Would be a shame too — they really are quite stunning…” Her voice trailed off and she returned her hands to stroking that soft down where the wings met his back — where he’d earlier had such an interesting reaction to it.

He didn’t disappoint this time either. He threw his head back and let out a falcon’s scream, impatiently grinding against her. “Fucking fuck me, that’s good,” his voice dropping an octave to an almost husky register. “I may have tae nibble at ye neck in a bit lass, but don’t worry, I’m no’ drinking.”

"Mating dance?" she asked, and kissed him again. She could feel his erection pushing against her body, his hands deftly unfastening the clasp of her bra.

He nuzzled her neck a bit and then swept his large hands up her body to cup and stroke her breasts. “Aye, something like that. Ye’re no’ fertile or a Winged though, so it’s just the normal Alpha-staking-his-claim shite.”

"Even though after today you’ll never see me again?"

"That," he replied, folding those gigantic wings around her until she was within a cocoon of grey, "is what makes this so much more fun. Now hush the fuck up woman, I can think of better things tae do with that flapping gob of yours." With that he closed the wings fully, exciting her with their delicate, whispering touch, and captured her mouth in the most soul-searing kiss she’d ever experienced in all the years of her life — which were more than this Malcolm had, but she wasn’t going to interrupt him for a discussion on the extended lifespan of witches — not when he’d just started doing some very interesting things with his fingers.

Oh, he was skilled, those long elegant fingers moving expertly inside of her, holding her to the edge but not letting her tip over, his teeth nipping along her neck, his … feathers, so soft and silky, delicately tickling along her skin.

The Malcolm she knew would have sunk his teeth in deeper by now, and probably offered her a few drops of his blood. Vampire blood was, without a doubt, the most potent aphrodisiac in the world. She’d certainly had one of the noisiest orgasms of her life in that lift with him.

This Malcolm didn’t need any supernatural help. He teased her and brushed her with his pinion feathers at the same time his fingers were twisting and circling in and around her, and through it all his mouth flittering from her lips to her breasts and her neck. His hands were lethal, finding every place she needed to be touched, stroking and fondling and caressing exactly as necessary, entirely as required. Not one action out of place, he was perfectly coordinated and quite extraordinary.

If “Alpha” meant “ruler” in his world, where status was built on power and sex, it was no surprise he’d risen to the top.

She had little time for other thoughts however, as he’d asked a question and she’d missed it.

"What? Sorry, I missed that."

He lifted his head from her breast, where he’d been rolling his tongue over her nipple like it was a ripe berry. “I asked ye, you daft bint, if you had any fucking condoms or something because ye don’t smell fertile, but I have nae idea how the fuck witches reproduce, and I’m not leaving some freak hybrid of a bird witch behind.”

For a moment the idea of a little fluffy-winged baby flitted across her mind and she almost sighed with want. No. She’d had her kids with her (never to be discussed with Malcolm, no matter what universe) werewolf husband, and she was too old for fairy tale wishes.

"It’s okay," she said. "I can control every action in my body if I choose. If I decide not to ovulate I don’t, nor does any life take root within me unless I specifically allow it to."

Her chest heaving, she stared into a sharp-featured face that held more than a hint of cruelty. “So make me come, Malcolm. Please — I want you to make me come.” She arched her back, grinding against him, keyed up and desperate and wanting, her body quivering, inexorably drawn to that sense of fierceness and wildness that was just there, the aura of power that he wore like a second skin. Oh yes, he was beautiful — like a rare and deadly bird of prey one saw ripping a smaller bird apart on a nature programme.

His tongue grazed her other nipple in a light flick that made her whimper.

"Are ye sure?" A very male, very Malcolm smile against her skin.

She gripped at his upper arms, lean muscle and tendon flexing under her touch as she locked her legs around his hips and jerked her own upward, taking his cock inside her with one hard thrust, her tight flesh stretching around his thickness.

Wings spreading wider above her, he entangled his fingers into her hair and leaned in for another scorching kiss, biting her lower lip, their tongues tangled almost as if in battle, until Nicola’s breath lost. Gasping just enough air to continue, she ran her hands across the taut muscles of his back before returning them to the upper curves of his wings.

With a lightning fast movement, he tipped her onto her back on the bed without missing a single beat. Rising now above her, his wings arched into a dominance pose, he gave her a series of shallow thrusts, never enough to make her come. “Hope ye don’t mind love,” he growled against her neck after a few minutes, “but I do like it a bit rough.” 

"F-fine by me." Anything to end this slow torture of her body. He was a bird after all, how rough could it really be?

Malcolm snorted and buried his face against her neck, then pulled himself out, his cock sliding over oversensitized nerves and muscles. “Hold on tae me.” 

His first thrust after she’d taken hold of his wings was brutal. He was like a hurricane battering against her and into her, and dear goddess it was exciting and wild and uncivilised. His wings stayed arched up as he moaned and pushed even harder into her, pounding her into the bed, his nails tearing into her back like talons and raising thin streams of blood.

Riding the steep climb to her own climax, she could hear under her own moans his answering ones. He was close too.

This magnificent, terrifying, powerful creature was going to come inside her.

Nicola’s head snapped backward as that realisation hit her. The pressure inside her grew beyond control and she was grabbing frantically for any part of him she could reach.

"Malcolm, please!" Her cries, so similar to those of his Nicola, drove him forwards to the hardest, roughest sex a Wingless could take. His hands were clawed against her back, nails digging into her skin. His mouth settled over her neck, ready to bite as his orgasm swelled up. Soon now, very soon.

Malcolm set a hard and demanding pace, the primal intensity of him a blaze against her senses, but Nicola was High Priestess of Westminster and no fragile bird. Giving back kiss for searing kiss, she took the pounding thrusts of his cock and demanded more.

He answered by biting her pale neck where it met the shoulder—not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to skate the edge of hurt. Her hands spread on his back, the whipcord strength of him flexing taut and beautiful under her touch.

Nicola screamed as the orgasm took her in a wave of pleasure so vicious, it threatened to shatter her into pieces.

A bright ultraviolet flash shot from her eyes as her head was flung back into the pillows again and again, barely able to hold on to the chaotic energies filling the room. Nothing, no sex, no ritual, no high gathering of the covens in recent memory or witness had ever raised power quite like this before; a lesser witch would be burned to the bone.

She wasn’t a lesser witch.

She clenched around Malcolm so possessively that he had to brace his wings against the wall, refusing to break the connection even as her body spasmed under the thunderstorm of energy. Pulling at his grey hair, she initiated another kiss, one that was all tongue and heat and fury.

Malcolm saw through closed eyelids the sudden deep purple flash and just tried to hold onto the wild, glowing, screaming woman underneath him for a few more seconds. Just a moment more and—

—he came, finally, blessedly and deep, his wings trembling to full stretch behind him as he groaned and filled her with waves of his come.

Finally, spent, he thanked the fucking gods of the air there was no firming back up again; his wings settled down to drape over them and onto the floor.

They should have been exhausted after a shagging like that; instead Malcolm felt refreshed, better than ever. He examined the leg his counterpart had torn into; it was completely whole and healed without scarring.

"I told you it was a source of magical energy," Nicola said, a small smile lifting the corner of her mouth.

"Right, Glinda," he said dismissively. "Now where’s that tracking glass or ruby slipper shite ye were talking about? I’m not sticking around this fucking hellhole, I’d rather have my wings cut off an’ fucking fed to me on Britain’s Got Talent."

Just as she got up to look for the scrying glass, there was a knock on the door.

"Fuck!" Malcolm exclaimed and rushed for the window. "It’s fucking nosferatu again! I’m out of here like a 2am kebab through a student."

Nicola stopped him with a gentle grip on his wrist. “Told you, Witch here remember? If I don’t want bloodsuckers and weres in my house, then they simply don’t come in.” A thought struck her. “Well, not in the same pieces they arrived in, at least.”

Leaving him with some clothes of her husband (“He won’t mind, spends most of his time as a fucking dog these days, anyway,” she’d said when he’d tried to object) and a threat of magically locking the windows if he tried to rabbit, she wrapped a loose black cotton gown around herself and tied the sash. Pausing at the hallway mirror — set to reflect out of the house, useful against hostile spirits — she checked herself over. Hell. The bitten lips, mussed hair, flushed face and chest, and bite marks on her neck would positively scream to her Malcolm what she’d been up to. Even if that lot didn’t, the smell of recent sex hovering around her and the not-angel upstairs would.

Both winged and vampire versions of him had damn good eyesight and even better sense of smell. And a thing for biting necks, she thought and ran a finger along the ridge of bumps from her shoulder to her ear.

Couldn’t be helped though, there was no way she could leave Malcolm outside the house while she took a shower. Best to get it over and done with, she thought, and opened the door a crack.

As she expected, the vampiric, daywalking Director of Communications and his werewolf sidekick Jamie MacDonald, thankfully in human form and shrugging on a shirt, had just darkened her doorstep.

"Hello, Nightmare on Downing Street. I see you brought Lassie with you too!"

"Witty as usual," came the answer, raspy with a Glaswegian brogue. "Jamie and I decided to go bird-watching, ye see, and I hear ye caught a rare specimen."

"I don’t know what you are talking about, Malcolm," she said, "and I’m sure any policy or media discussions can wait until —"

"Listen, Wicked Witch of Westminster," Malcolm had his hand on the doorknob, intending to force it open. His eyes were incandescent, his aura glowing with power. "I just want that fucking freak you’ve been hiding. Bring him out, and you won’t have to have us bouncing around yer nice home lookin’ for him like fucking bollocks in a tumble dryer, right?"

"Malcolm, your pet labradoodle can be forgiven for forgetting whose house this, is but you cannot. Damage my home, force your way in, or kidnap someone I have not only given sanctuary to, but also spent the last fucking hour patching the fuck back together because you can’t control your fucking fangs, and I will have the Westminster Coven make it their full-time hobby to have a ball of sunlight follow you around for the next twenty years.”

"Nice rant there love," said an identical brogue from behind her. The alternate Malcolm strode up to her, wings back inside his body and his very trim figure in trousers and a grey T-shirt that revealed forearms sculpted with sleek, sinewy muscle. "But that’s me pet, he’ll find a loophole. I would."

Nicola shook her head. “I’m not letting him in if he’s going to beat you up and trash my fucking house, some of the books in here are older than the UK itself.”

"But," Malcolm added, "you can restrict him yeah? I dunno, put him and that fuckin’ mutt of his on leashes an’ chain them tae the floor. Fuck it, if you could get a photo of that fer me tae take back I’ll happily show ye a few more bedroom tricks before ye send me home."

"You’re an evil man, Malcolm, in any reality."

"Yeah, an’ I’m a right cunt as well. Come on, let them in, he’ll only allow Jamie tae crap on your lawn otherwise."

Nicola opened the door. “Perhaps we can have tea and talk about it like reasonable people?” she asked, telekinetically moving a teapot and some cups to the delicately carved end table.

***

Malcolm’s hands twitched with the desire to wring the neck of the being who sat next to Nicola, the one with great grey wings and blood like a fucking cocaine supernova. He was normally quite controlled as far as vampires go; he didn’t know how long he could hold out against his instincts today.

He looked Nicola up and down; the sight of mussed hair, flushed skin, and bite marks on both the witch and his twin said it all.

"Nicola Murray has always loved my wings."

Stupid bint must have soaked her knickers at the sight of them, and used her magic to seduce him. He always knew witches were fucking sluts.

"So, ye were off with your knickers the instant he arrived? Fucking brilliant, did you forget you’re supposed tae be married?" Venting his usual anger at Nicola seemed a safer option than looking at his double, sprawling on the sofa like he fucking owned the place. "How am I going tae fix this, Slutty Murray and her fallen angel fuck buddy? Please tell me he didn’t fly into here?"

Nicola just shrugged and carried on making the tea until she saw, from out of the corner of her eye, her scrying mirror change from black to deep red. The spell had found the other Malcolm’s home dimension.

What she saw in the scrying glass was a London not that different from her own. The scene shifted from a bird’s eye view of Greater London to Hammersmith, then to a quiet and stately brick home.

The view then moved inside, to the master bedroom, where a young woman who could only be that world’s Sam Cassidy was undressing and tenderly kissing…Nicola Murray?

"Jesus Christ, is there any world where you’re not completely fucking daft?!" Malcolm exclaimed, but despite the vampire’s scandalized tones, his eyes were wide and fixed on the mirror as the two women climbed onto the largest fucking bed he’d ever seen and continued the kissing and caressing.

Jamie gave a rather barking laugh,  but both of them were watching the scrying glass with rather unseemly interest. Nicola sighed. Men.

"I thought that everyone on that world would have wings,” the witch said, not quite able to hide her disappointment at her counterpart not having any.

"Yeah, and we all ride purple fucking ponies over rainbows and shit fucking friendship dust everywhere. Christ." The winged Malcolm was returning to the insults, she noticed. Probably feeling safer under her roof than he’d admit to.

Hospitality was sacred to the Covens, she hadn’t lied about that, but she’d never told him to what extent. Allow a visitor to come to harm that you could have prevented and, well, the Covens had their own ways of dealing with lawbreakers that differed wildly from those of the Metropolitan Police. If her Malcolm, this world’s Malcolm rather, attempted to drain the winged (god of sex oh grow up, Nicola!) Malcolm, she’d have to burn him. Then Jamie would leap in on his master’s side, and she didn’t doubt the winged one could hold his own in a fight. The chances of there being a house left afterward were nil.

So, she had her shoulders knotted like steel cables as the alternate Malcolm padded over and looked into her scrying glass. If Sam really meant a lot to him, and the photo seemed to indicate she did, he was going to explode. Her fingers moved subtly behind her back, spinning up a swift imprisonment spell if he did get out of hand. He watched the glass for a few moments and she held her breath in fear.

Then, he laughed. “Atta girl, you’re gettin’ the hang of things just fine, aren’t ye?” Even Jamie looked totally dumbfounded by that response.

"Your fucking missus, who you would not shut the fuck up about at my place, has her fingers buried knuckle-deep inside the Stepford Screwup here and you’re fucking laughing?” Malcolm knew his fangs were lengthening again, but honestly this man was really pissing him off now. This wasn’t him, couldn’t be him, to watch his partner fuck around and laugh. He’d rip the cunting head off anyone who took Jamie away, and not just because he was a food source.

"Winged politics, and I’m not explainin’ it. Now, Glinda, do ye think you can get me home to that?"

Jamie snorted. “Click ye heels three times, ye auld grey cunt.” Malc had been right about one thing, this other Malcolm, the winged one, smelt very fuckin’ interesting to his wolfish senses, but there was a power coming off him he’d only sensed in his home pack’s Alpha. This one bird would be very, very dangerous tae corner.

***

"Did yer master forget to put on yer leash and feed you yer kibbles this morning?" Malcolm shot back. "Maybe you’ll behave if I scratch ye behind the ears."

"All right, ye want to go, ye fucking flying monkey—" Jamie sprung to his feet. The other Malcolm followed.

A sudden gust of wind forced werewolf, witch and vampire to close their eyes; when they opened them, they were faced with the Alpha of Westminster at full strength, enormous wings spread in a majestic sweep of grey feathers, his posture becoming taller and straighter. He was no longer the bedraggled little bird who had limped his way into Nicola’s house, but blade-straight and defiant, magnificently intimidating.

Malcolm gathered himself, ready to attack. His gaze fixed on Jamie’s face, his teeth bared. His body tensed, expression keen and alert. His bare feet gripped the carpet, his long legs bent lightly, ready to launch himself into a leap. Muscles bunched and knotted along his shoulders and back as his wings arched over him in threat display. His arms lifted slightly, spread wide, the fingers of his long hands like talons, ready to grasp and tear apart. Poised like this, he looked barely human.

"Bring it on, ye fucking Twilight rejects!” he snarled, stretching his wings so every razor-sharp pinion feather was clearly visible. “Next person tae try drinkin’ my fucking blood is going tae go through life with nae fuckin’ head!”

***

Malcolm bared his fangs, and Jamie growled, but before they could leap at the winged Tucker in front of them there was an enormous flash of blue light and then none of them could move.

Nicola stood with her hands on her knees, panting for breath. She’d never even tried to cast a containment spell on three people at once, and these were no ordinary people, either. They struggled against the glowing, deep blue shackles on their wrists, ankles and wings and she could only just hold them. If she hadn’t raised power earlier with Malcolm, she’d never have been able to do this, and a grand melee would be happening in her house right now.

“Nicola. Murray. Let. Me. Go!" She didn’t need to look up to know which Malcolm had just spoken. The voice like thudding tombstones in Glasgow could only have come from her world’s Malcolm, and he was not happy to be tied up, magically or otherwise.

"No, Malcolm," she said as she straightened up and looked at them all, "I didn’t heal him so you could bash the living shit out of him again. You’re acting like a bloody junkie, chasing your next fix all over London!"

Uncharacteristically, the winged version of Malcolm stayed silent through this little exchange. Maybe it was just self-preservation instinct to not arouse the ire of a witch who already had him pinned against a wall, Nicola didn’t know, but she thanked all her patron goddesses for the blessing of silence as she retrieved a rather heavy tome on magical multiversal theory from the bookshelf. “We need to get him home. It’s pretty obvious that he’s not supposed to be here and that he’s turned you into a junkie—”

"—and you into a fucking slut!" The vampiric Malcolm’s eyes were a full phosphorescent orange, and he was glaring straight at her as he tried to hide the shaking in his hands.

She decided to ignore that. Keeping them contained was getting harder by the second, and she’d need every scrap of energy she had to get this fallen angel Malcolm back home.

However, she’d need some help…

"Malcolm, Jamie, I can’t do this without you. Your powers, and mine, and his in tandem, should be enough to breach the dimension barrier and get him home." The ceremony, ideally, should have involved her fellow witches instead, including a scholar witch specializing in multiverse lore and dimensional travel, but this was a problem she’d never go to the Coven with.

"And why should I help ye send away the best fucking meal I’ve had in years?" Malcolm said, eyes still glowing. "I think I’d rather shove a fucking corkscrew up my urethra."

"Malcolm, I’m asking for your help. He doesn’t belong here. His being here upsets The Order of Things."

But once she lowered the containment spell, he followed Nicola out onto the lawn with no further protest. Well, roll me in fucking glitter and call me Edward Cullen! he thought, watching Nicola set up the crystals, draw the circles and sigils, beseech Artemis and Hecate to aid her. I’m actually helping this third-rate witch take my fucking prey from me.

After all, half-bird he may be, but the other man was still Malcolm F Tucker, and if his job was anything like his, he was the one who held the Party’s collection of fuckups and fuckwits to the line with not much more than his native cunning, the heavy use of profanity, and sheer force of will. He couldn’t be away from his own world for long. That might result in disaster, such as a world war, or worse, the Party forced out of power in the Government. Besides, as good as the fucking — and the food — was, he couldn’t have his house smashed to pieces all the time.

Nicola had each of the men join hands with her, until they formed a small circle in the middle of the sigil, and started to chant in some long-dead language. Ideally, the ceremony would have happened at midnight, where the magical forces were strongest and the barriers between worlds weakest, but that was clearly out of the question. None of them shivered in the London winter, but their breath steamed in front of them.

A chain of blue light wound around witch and vampire and werewolf and winged, the energy testing, tasting, drawing off some of their own power, before being drawn into the circle. The circle glowed with a similar blue energy, before being mirrored high above them. The portal was up.

Nicola wasn’t sure it was strong enough. If the portal was too weak, it would collapse, tearing him apart as he went through it.

***

At Nicola’s nod, Malcolm released his grip and stepped outside of the circle. He stripped off the shirt in a single fluid movement and threw it to the ground. With a flex of his muscles, he unfurled wings like blades, opening them to their full span, and started running, his gait surprisingly  ungainly.

Stretching his wings,  Malcolm leapt like a coiled spring and pushed away from the solid world, the powerful beating of his wings buffeting the three below with gusts of wind. In a sweep of weightlessness he was lifted into the icy air, past the quiet brick houses of residential Westminster, and up toward the abyss of sky.

***

Nicola looked up, and what she saw stole her breath.

He was stunning against the grey London sky streaked with the golds, purples, and pinks of an early sunset, the lithe perfection of his body dwarfed by immense wings shining silver and backlit with soft fire. His wings spread to their greatest width, his grey hair ruffling as he glided on the air currents, was such a beautiful sight that she wanted to close the portal and possess him forever.

That, she knew, was impossible; he was a creature wild and untamed, to be caged at her peril.

Ignoring the gawking stares of the other three, he flew straight through the ring of blue fire, a beautiful monster amongst the clouds, and once through, the portal closed behind him, leaving behind only one large grey feather that drifted very slowly to the ground.

Nicola jumped and caught it, handling it with care as she examined it. It was as long as her arm and dove grey, soft with a silvery sheen and yet strangely strong, so pure and perfect that one could tell at a glance that it came from the wing of something — or someone — entirely out of the ordinary. She very gently closed her fingers around it and took it inside.

***

It wasn’t a smooth transition back to his own world. Flying through that fucking blue arsehole spell shite had felt like being spun in a washing machine that had been fed a good dose of fucking crack. Spinning round, flashing lights, a second or two where there was no light or air — and then, fucking finally, the darkening orange of a sunset over what he hoped was his London —  it had been a horrific flight. Last time he’d felt that close to falling out of the skies, he’d been out on the pish with a few university mates and tried to fly home when he couldn’t even focus his fucking eyes. He still had a tiny scar on the side of his nose from where he’d crashed into a tree that night. Fucking tree shouldn’t have stood in his way.

But now, now he was home. Or at least he hoped. There was far too much light to fly to his house unseen, so he landed in a small park that looked fairly deserted, retracted his wings back into his body, and flung his jacket — borrowed from Nicola and nae fucking chance of her ever getting it back now — over his bare chest. It was about a mile to his house and running all the way would garner too much fucking attention from somebody as to why he was legging it, so he strolled.

He hoped that the scene he’d seen in the scrying mirror was, for one, actually happening and two, still ongoing. Malcolm tried not to think too much about it, as he wasn’t carrying anything that would hide him if he got a full erection right now.

He was on familiar streets now, with familiar architecture, the rooftops of the older buildings built with Winged in mind—gently sloped, but not at an acute angle, not enough to make a landing dangerous.

When Malcolm entered his house and found his way to the bedroom, the door was closed, but he could hear the voices of two women he knew very well.

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The-Crazy-Geek and TheMasterPlanner can both be found on Tumblr posting previews and snippets of fics in progress as well as the finished products.

**Author's Note:**

> The-Crazy-Geek and TheMasterPlanner can both be found on Tumblr posting previews and snippets of fics in progress as well as the finished products.


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